Whisky and Ice Cream Don't Mix
by natalieashe
Summary: When Sherlock saves Lestrade's life, a few celebratory drinks make for an interesting evening (not the usual pairing, please be kind)


The blue strobing lights intermittently illuminated the rain-wet car park, highlighting the forces of Scotland Yard in flashes as they busied around the scene like ants around their nest. Donovan strode around the site, bellowing orders left and right, stopping to check on progress with a uniformed officer and then whirling away into the darkness. Sherlock didn't really know why he was still hanging around, save for Lestrade's request for him to wait for him by the gate. There was no sign of the man himself yet – he was probably still updating the ground force on the events of the evening – but there was plenty of activity to capture his idle interest. The excitement was over of course. Two covered humps on the ground, surrounded by forensic teams gathering evidence, another group of people gathered around the steps of an ambulance… Ah, that's where Lestrade would be… It all illustrated the conclusion of his latest case had not exactly gone to plan. He inhaled deeply on the last of the cigarette he had managed to blag from a curious passer-by, before the man had been ushered away by a uniform, then cast the remainder aside into a puddle. Smoking was no fun without John around to grumble at him. If John had been here, things would have progressed like clock-work, but Lestrade just didn't have that… _whatever it was_… that made John understand exactly what was required of him, and when. John would not have found himself with a knife pressed up against his throat, arm twisted painfully behind his back, acting as a human-shield for a desperate criminal. Or if he had, he'd have gotten himself out of the fix without needing Sherlock's help! As it was, it appeared that Lestrade had decided he was rather pleased that Sherlock had thought to borrow John's gun in spite of his earlier protestations about unlicensed firearms, or some such…

Lestrade came bounding up a moment later, pulling on his coat and grinning like a loon. "Got the all clear," he crowed, "now, time for a drink!" Even in his smartest clothing, Greg Lestrade always managed to look slightly dishevelled, but tonight he looked like an extra from a horror movie. The left half of his shirt and suit jacket, from shoulder to hip, were heavily blood stained. His face and silver hair were spattered with dark globs of reddish-brown that still shone obscenely as the lights passed over. There had been some attempt to wipe the blood away on his neck and jaw, so it smeared grotesquely in swathes across his tanned skin.

"Are you sure none of that's yours? No nicks or scratches?"

His eyes darkened for a moment. "Small one, barely there. Still have to have the usual tests in a day or two, the usual agony of waiting for the all clear. But not going to think about that now. I'm still bloody here for the moment, thanks to you." He brightened considerably as he checked his watch. "Come on, I should've clocked off an hour ago, and I want out of here."

Sherlock trailed after him towards the main road, hands deep in pockets, wondering what to say that would possibly alleviate the fears the policeman must have at the back of his mind. "It's statistically unlikely that…"

"Don't want to talk about it Sherlock! I'm just bloody glad to be alive and I want to celebrate!" He stopped under a streetlight and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He put two between his lips and lit them both, then passed one to Sherlock who took it without commenting on the millions of germs from Greg's mouth, or the possible transfer of bacteria from the blood that freckled his friend's hands and face. He was tired, as he always was when a case was resolved, but he wasn't looking forward to returning to the empty flat. John's absence echoed so loudly in the silence it made him want to scream at times. He missed the rustle of the newspaper, the sharp exclamations of horror at the body parts in the fridge, and the constant inane questions when he was trying to think. He realised his current companion had asked him a question and was waiting impatiently for an answer. "I said, pub or off licence?"

"Oh… um… well any pub of quality wouldn't allow us past the door with you looking like that. I'm sure there are a few where we'd blend right in, but perhaps it would be better to head back to Baker Street. You can clean up before you get a cab home." More diplomatic than 'Go home Lestrade, I'm tired' – John would be so proud. It was a twenty minute walk to Baker Street and it had started to rain again, fat cold droplets striking them as they walked briskly down the dark streets. It wasn't long before Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him into a small late-night newsagent whose windows were plastered with adverts for cheap booze. The stocky woman behind the counter cowered, in wide-eyed horror at the blood-soaked man and his tall, bedraggled companion. "It's not his blood, " Sherlock commented helpfully, hoping to alleviate some of the woman's apparent distress. She gestured mutely at the array of bottles behind her in response to Lestrade's request for whisky then backed away from the tall detective as he leaned over the counter to get a better look at the bottles. "I don't recognise many of these labels, are you sure they're legal?" he muttered.

"Live dangerously!" Greg said gleefully pointing at a couple of bottles he wanted to inspect more closely.

"I live dangerously every day, for god's sake. If I'm going to die by living dangerously, I'd rather it was by a gunshot…" he stopped, realising that what he'd been about to say might seem insensitive. John really _would_ be amazed. "I just mean, it would be far less dignified to die of multiple organ failure as a result of ingesting illegal alcohol that's probably mostly antifreeze. That one?" He said, pointing at a bottle he finally recognised. Greg wrinkled his nose and leaned over the counter once more, selecting another bottle.

"Bloody hell – fairly decent single malt. Didn't expect to find that in here. This one. How much?"

"Fifty pounds." The woman stammered.

"_Fifty_?" Yelped Sherlock, just as Greg said "We'll take it. Pay the woman, Sherlock" Lestrade plucked a brown paper bag from the pile on the counter and carefully placed the precious bottle of whisky into it. Within moments he had removed the plastic and stopper as a complaining Sherlock parted with his cash. He reverently placed the bottle to his lips and took a deep swallow of the deep golden liquid. The powerful spirit burned his throat and made his sinuses tingle painfully as he gulped it down, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes from the painful pleasure that assaulted his senses. "Jesus," he gasped, "that's good stuff!" He thrust the bottle at Sherlock who eyed it dubiously. "Drink! We're celebrating the fact you didn't kill me tonight."

"I might yet. The night is still young." Said Sherlock drily, but he surreptitiously wiped the neck of the bottle on his shirt and took a more delicate mouthful, suppressing the desire to choke as it slipped down. Apparently they had different definitions of the word 'good' but Sherlock had to admit that the warmth that spread through his stomach had a rather fortifying effect. He took another long swallow, before returning the bottle to Greg. The shopkeeper recovered some of her composure, now that money had changed hands, and she ushered them back out into the street locking the door firmly behind them and flipping the open sign to closed.

"So just how close did you come to killing me?" Greg asked cheerfully as they turned into Baker Street.

"I calculated that the knife at your throat posed a greater risk to your life than taking the shot," said Sherlock evasively. He sighed and reached for the bottle once more. Oddly he found that the alcohol seemed to be numbing the jangling he'd been feeling in the back of his head ever since he'd committed to firing the gun at the shadowy figure that pressed the gleaming knife to Lestrade's throat. Like a cornered animal, the black-haired man had realised he had nothing left to lose so had turned his mind to attack. Sherlock had seen the decision in his eyes, the very instant he made it, and acted instinctively firing true at the man's shoulder. The force of the bullet entering his flesh had forced his forearm away from the policeman, lessening the immediate danger to Lestrade's life, but in the same moment he was reaching for his own gun. Sherlock didn't give him the opportunity, firing a second time at the man's chest. Both men had gone down, the foreigner landing on top of Lestrade, and Sherlock had a moment of fear that he may have miscalculated, but Lestrade's string of obscenities seconds later had reassured him that the Detective Inspector was largely unharmed.

"Sherlock?"

"There was a thirty-eight percent chance that I would shoot you by mistake. A twenty-three percent chance that, if I made the shot correctly, your attacker's hand would be forced backwards, instead of outwards, thrusting the knife into your throat, and almost certainly killing you. The look in his eyes said that if I failed to pull the trigger, there was a greater than ninety-seven percent chance that you would die anyway. I liked my odds."

"You bastard!" choked Greg, handing the bottle back once more. "You could've killed me."

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"You could say sorry."

"Sorry for not killing you."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

Greg was starting to slur his words a little and they were laughing softly as they climbed the stairs to the flat. Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her door as they clattered up the steps, offering them tea, which they both declined. Mercifully the light in the hallway was out again so Sherlock was able to usher Lestrade quickly away before she became concerned at his appearance. Once upstairs Sherlock shrugged off his coat and scarf, carefully hanging them to dry. He waggled his fingers through his curly hair, shaking off drops of rainwater like a dog, spattering Greg who was nearby looking gloomily at his ruined jacket. "Oi!" he exclaimed. "I'm wet enough without you doing that. I think this is only fit for the bin." He dumped the jacket on the floor, loosened his tie, and began to unbutton his shirt. The fabric was stiff with the criminal's blood, and his hands were numb with cold. He cursed with frustration as his clumsy fingers refused to grip the small buttons and push them through the button holes. Sherlock saw his struggle and stepped in to help, briskly pulling the shirt free of Greg's trousers and deftly flicking open the buttons with nimble fingers. "Sherlock!" Lestrade protested, flushing a deep crimson, discomforted by this over-familiarity. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"You would've been there all night. Unless you particularly wanted to remain in those filthy clothes?"

"No, but… well, there are some things you just don't do. Or you at least _ask_!"

"I'm sorry for trying to assist you in removing your clothes. Just trying to move things along…" he trailed off at Greg's startled look. "Um… so you can take a shower, and get a cab home? I'll um… You know where the bathroom is – I'll go fetch some clothes of John's – they should probably fit well enough to see you home." Sherlock dashed off to John's old room hiding the sudden blush that seemed to be blooming on his cheeks. He was aware from Lestrade's reaction that he'd overstepped a mark somehow, probably something about personal space. John was always on about respecting personal space and undressing someone without their permission would probably fall into that category. If it had been John then it would have been fine, not weird at all. Well, John would have realised he was trying to help. Other people were so complicated.

Although John had long since moved out he kept quite a lot of 'emergency clothing' at Baker Street so he could crash there without disturbing Mary when cases dragged on. Sherlock quickly found a pair of John's jeans and a striped shirt and headed back downstairs. He noticed Greg's shirt and trousers had joined his jacket in the pile, and the bottle of whisky had disappeared from the side table. The bathroom door was ajar, thin trails of steam escaping into the hallway. Sherlock shivered noticing that his shirt collar and ankles of his trousers were both damp and clammy from the rain. He would change too as soon as he delivered John's clothes to Lestrade. He tapped lightly on the bathroom door. "I have some clothes," he called.

"One second... Ok, you can come in..."

Sherlock pushed the door open cautiously, unsure of the etiquette for sharing a bathroom with someone other than John. That had been new once too, he reminded himself, and there hadn't been too many incidents that had caused John to yell at him. A business-like approach seemed best in the circumstances. "Jeans and a shirt," he said as he hung them on a hook behind the door. "Mrs Hudson changed the towels this morning so they are clean and unused. Do you need anything else?"

Lestrade was now clean of blood, his slicked back hair gleaming pewter in the dim bathroom light. Once the shower had rinsed it away he had allowed the water to fill the bath. He reclined in the hot water, full glass in his hand, modesty preserved by the shower curtain that partially floated on the surface. "Yeah. I need you to get drunk with me, and then I need you to pour me into a cab and send me home, ok? I poured you one." He gestured at another generously filled glass sitting by the washbasin beside the bottle, now stripped of its paper bag. A third of the contents had been consumed and both men were feeling mellower as the alcohol seeped into their blood. Greg raised his glass and Sherlock chinked his against it in a toast "To not being dead!" he declared.

Sherlock didn't much care for getting drunk, but he understood that it was what Greg wanted, and maybe needed, to banish his ordeal. Drinking with a naked man in a bathtub whilst perched on the toilet lid, however, put him firmly outside his comfort zone. John had hammered into him that maintaining appropriate eye contact during a conversation was the polite and socially acceptable thing to do. John _hadn't_ given him any guidance on what to do if his partner in the conversation kept his eyes firmly shut while he luxuriated in a hot bath and discussed inconsequential things. He found his eyes repeatedly drawn to Greg's bare shoulders and chest, studying the way the water beaded on his skin and lapped at the crook of his neck. He took another few swallows of whisky then announced he was going to change, escaping the steamy atmosphere.

He changed into loose pyjama pants and pulled on his favourite dressing gown over his shirt, unfastening a couple more buttons. Socks were dumped in the laundry hamper and his trousers hung neatly on a hanger to be dry cleaned. His bed looked so inviting but he couldn't be rude and abandon his guest - maybe he'd be ready to leave soon? He dragged his fingers through his still damp hair, cursing when they snagged on a knot. With slightly unsteady steps he wandered back to the sitting room and settled into his chair. He swirled the last inch of spirit in his glass fascinated with the way the liquid clung to the sides in an almost oily fashion. Moments later more whisky sloshed into it as Greg refilled his drink and slumped into John's chair. The jeans were a fraction too short, a little too tight. He'd pulled the zip up as far as it would go, but the button was a lost cause, so his navy blue trunks peeked above the waistband. He was obviously broader in the shoulder than John too as the shirt was stretched over his back and upper arms. He hadn't bothered to fasten it, leaving his tanned torso bare. For a man in his late forties he looked pretty good, with only a slight softening around the middle.

"You're staring Sherlock!"

"Sorry. John's chair... John's clothes... But not John. It's a little unsettling. I'm used to his little serious face, not your big toothy grin. And he's altogether less... Slouchy!" Yes, that was it. John was much more contained and orderly. He would never sit across from Sherlock with so much skin showing. There were protocols to be observed when sharing a flat with another male, and relaxed state of undress had never featured in his relationship with John.

"You miss him?"

"Yes, every day" Sherlock admitted, "he did stuff... You know..? Looked after me."

"So you were a couple then? I knew it!" leered Greg. Sherlock supposed they were, but not in the sense Lestrade meant. John had taken care of him, ensured he was fed and watered, looked after him when he was sick, and organised his life. He loved John as much as he was able, held him in the highest regard possible, and would die for him tomorrow. But through his woozy haze he knew that wasn't what Lestrade was asking.

"John's not gay." Always John. He never voiced how he felt because he didn't know how to put it into words. It was easier to let John's words speak for them both. Molly had called it something once... What was the word? _Bromance?_ It was as good a word as any, even if it was an abhorrent mangling of the English language.

"Are you?" Greg asked, the alcohol making him bold, "cos it's totally fine if you are, yeah? I mean, I'm ok with it. If you are gay, that is."

Sherlock simply smiled at the older man and changed the subject. "Where did you get the tan? It's the middle of winter and I know you haven't been abroad in the last three years."

"Natural skin tone?" Greg attempted, then, "oh alright. The wife hired a sun bed before she left this time. Haven't got round to returning it yet so thought I'd give it a go. Look, no tan lines..." He pushed the band of his underwear a couple of inches lower. Sherlock quickly averted his eyes. "Aw c'mon, not all of us have the eye of the ladies like you; we have to work a little harder. You, with your razor sharp cheekbones and touchable hair - half the women at the Yard look at you as if you were a pile of cute cuddly kittens - _hot_ cuddly kittens. The way some of those women talk about you... Makes my ears bleed!" He commented waving his glass in Sherlock's general direction to emphasise his point. He put his hand to his forehead in a mock swoon. "But Mister tall, dark and handsome doesn't notice the normal people like me."

"I notice you; you're quite clever for a policeman."

"Yeah, well... I didn't mean me _per se_... Got any crisps?" He asked abruptly, looking hopefully towards the kitchen. He shambled across the room swaying slightly. "There are unpacked shopping bags here, you know?" Shopping bags meant Wednesday - yes, Sherlock vaguely recalled John arriving this morning laden with bags but he'd paid the visit his usual scant attention, his eyes glued to the microscope. Greg was busy pulling items out and dumping them on the table. "There's ice cream. Well, more like mint-choc-chip soup now. You realise you're meant to freeze it? And wine! Not to be frozen." He giggled and held the bottle aloft. "Shall we?" He returned unsteadily to his seat with the bottle and the tub of melted ice cream, a spoon clenched in his teeth. He handed the bottle to Sherlock who squinted at the label critically.

"Quite a good wine. Not John's usual plonk. Even Mycroft might allow this past his lips." Fortunately the bottle had a screw cap, but Greg had forgotten the wine glasses. Sherlock heaved himself to his feet, then thought better of it as the room lurched to one side. He tumbled back into his seat with significantly less grace than normal. Greg drained his whisky glass and held it out, with a shrug Sherlock filled it to the brim, doing the same with his own. He studied Lestrade as he opened the ice cream with exaggerated care, balancing the plastic tub on his lap and easing the lid back. The level of concentration employed was akin to one of Sherlock's most hazardous experiments. "You're really going to eat that?"

"Yep!" Greg scooped a generous spoonful of the pale green goo and shovelled it into his mouth with a contented sigh. He sucked the spoon clean before delving into the tub again for another helping. "It's really good... Want some?" With a lazy smile he held out the laden spoon to Sherlock, who suddenly found he desperately wanted to taste choc-mint-chip. Sliding off his chair, for he no longer trusted his legs, he scrambled across the short distance to the proffered spoon. Greg delicately slipped it between his lips, but not before a trickle of green dribbled down Sherlock's chin and dripped onto Greg's stomach. "Oops!" Greg whisked the drop away with his finger, licking it clean. It was an intimate gesture that made Sherlock's stomach quiver in a very unfamiliar manner. It wasn't wholly unpleasant but it definitely made him uncomfortable to be this close to another human being. Physical contact wasn't something he generally indulged in, but this... He was suddenly very aware of his body and every point that was pressed against Greg Lestrade as he waited in anticipation of the next delicious mouthful. "More?" Greg asked, sparkling blue eyes fixed on grey-green. It was too much...

"No, I... No thanks" he muttered, turning away from the detective inspector and slumping on the floor with his back to John's chair. He rubbed his hands fiercely over his face, trying to erase those bright blue eyes from his mind. He took several calming gulps of his wine. He didn't know what to make of the thoughts trying to surface, so he stubbornly pushed them back down into the recesses of his mind. Affection... Well, he allowed himself to acknowledge a small amount of affection for John, but kept that tightly controlled. Attraction... That was a whole other alien landscape that he wasn't at all sure he wanted to explore... But it was there. Unmistakably. Hopefully it was the alcohol- one more reason to avoid getting drunk. He couldn't... _Wouldn't…_ allow any form of attachment to develop, particularly not to this man.

"I've had enough, feel a bit sick now" Lestrade thrust the ice cream tub over Sherlock's shoulder. The sudden movement caused a mini tidal wave of sweet gloop to surge over the edge and cascade down Sherlock's shirt. "Bugger, sorry mate." Sherlock just looked down at the spreading stain and sighed, finding himself unable to care. It was sticky though, and the nauseating green colour did nothing to enhance the deep blue cotton. Without unfastening the final few buttons he pulled it off over his head and tossed it across the room. "Do you have to do that?" Sherlock looked up at a scowling Greg. "Not enough to have the women falling all over you on the outside, you have to go and be bloody... _fit_... underneath too. Give the rest of us a chance," he grumbled.

"It's just a body. Serves me well enough, doesn't let me down too often. It's not liked I take care of it," said Sherlock, genuinely mystified.

"That's the bloody point. Gym twice a week, squash on Sundays with people I don't even like, and all that effort gets me this!" He prodded himself in the stomach. It looked good enough to Sherlock, perhaps a little too good, but he squashed that thought. "Hey, maybe we should go out to a club or something? You and me – with your looks and my charm - on the pull..."

"It's after four in the morning. You're wearing ill-fitting clothing and you're covered in ice cream. I'm in my pyjamas. Even if I could bring myself to consider entering a nightclub at _any_ hour, I doubt either of us are capable of making it to the front door." Sherlock leant his head back against the arm of John's chair, eyes closed against the wavering room. "I'm relieved I didn't accidentally hurt you tonight." Sherlock said softly. "If you want to stay tonight rather than getting a cab... John's bed is made up, or the sofa...?" He froze when Greg rested his hand lightly on the crown of his head, absently twirling a curl around his finger.

"Ok, thanks. I don't think I can climb the stairs to John's room, so the sofa it is. Got a blanket?"

Sherlock swiftly clambered to his feet, stumbling as he stood upright. He gripped the mantelpiece with one hand and seized Greg's wrist with the other, hauling the surprised policeman to his feet. Lestrade's legs wobbled like Bambi on ice, his momentum causing him to fall against Sherlock's chest. He gave a stunned exclamation as the detective's arm closed around him preventing him from falling to the floor. Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes as he whispered "Bedtime. My bed... There's plenty room and it'll be warmer." Greg was wide-eyed as Sherlock clung to his hand and led him to his bedroom, the shock of this sudden turn events sobering him up rapidly.

"Sherlock...? I'm not sure..." he stuttered.

"Sleeping in a warm comfortable bed. That's all." Yes, that was absolutely all he was suggesting, wasn't it? He had expected Lestrade to refuse the arrangement outright, so now he was panicking. He never acted on impulse. Not true - he was impulsive all the time - but not when it came to human interaction. Anything involving emotions or sentiment was carefully guarded and rigidly controlled. To be seen as cold was a carefully constructed defence against the negative aspects of attachment. Only John had ever been able to break through that shell. It was dark in the bedroom as Sherlock guided Greg around the furniture to the bed. He pulled the covers down and indicated he should clamber in. John's clothes had to be uncomfortable to sleep in, tight as they were, but he remained fully dressed. Sherlock was relieved, not really having any idea where this should be going. He hesitated before pulling the covers down on his own side of the bed - odd that he should have a _'side'_ when he'd never shared a bed before - unsure if he should make Greg more comfortable by offering to sleep on top of the blankets, but it was chilly in the room.

"Just get in. You're making me nervous hovering there like the boogie man." Greg's rough voice punctured the uneasy silence.

"Boogie man? Don't you mean bogey man? I don't dance." And just like that, the tension was broken as they both dissolved into fits if drunken laughter. Sherlock slid beneath the blankets, curling up on his side facing the other man. "Is this ok? Plenty of room like I said."

"It's fine, just don't..."

"Touch you?"

"I was going to say snore," Sherlock heard the smile in his voice, but he warily maintained a decent distance between them as they settled down to sleep. It wasn't long before Greg's breathing evened out into the shallow sighs of sleep, but Sherlock lay staring at the policeman, acutely aware of every shift of his bed-mate's body. He tried closing his eyes, but snapped them open almost immediately when Greg rolled towards him instinctively seeking the warmth of another person. He would be used to sharing a bed with his wife, of course, but this was a completely new invasion of _his_ space. Greg being there at his invitation didn't make it any less unnerving. Finally he turned away from the sleeping man onto his back, and followed the cracks in the ceiling until his eyelids eventually drooped shut.

It seemed he had barely closed his eyes when he was woken by the crash of his bedroom door and John's disembodied voice demanding to know _what the hell_ had happened in the living room. Shielding his eyes from the searing morning sunlight he fought to clear sleep from his addled brain and tried to sit up but a heavy weight lay on his chest. Looking down at a silver head and tanned arm half sprawled across his body he issued a string of choice expletives and attempted to shove the still sleeping Lestrade away. God his mouth felt disgusting. His tongue appeared to be glued to the roof of his mouth and his head... _pounding_... And oh god, was he going to throw up...? He heaved in a deep breath and managed to keep the bile from rising, finally succeeding in pushing himself up onto his elbows. Greg groaned and rolled off him, burying his head beneath a pillow with a muttered "_Christ!_"

Sherlock squinted at a smirking John who leaned by the door. "Well… I really don't know which question to ask first. Looks like you two had quite the party! I was pretty worried when I found all the blood-stained clothing – thought maybe you'd murdered someone again – then the booze, two glasses… _discarded shirt_…?" The offending article of clothing dangled from his hand, like an accusation. "Care to offer an explanation for why you, and a semi-naked Detective Inspector, are cuddled up in bed together? Can't wait to hear your excuse for this one. I'm particularly intrigued to know how two grown men find themselves covered in ice cream…?"

"Sod off John!" He flopped back onto the pillows attempting to yank the blanket over his head but Greg was lying on it. At some point in the night he had managed to half extricate himself from John's shirt which explained why Sherlock was now treated to the length of his naked back sprawled across the bed. The striped shirt was still tangled around one arm, and he could only hope that Greg was still clothed under the covers. Surreptitiously he moved his foot and was reassured to feel the rough denim of Greg's jean covered calf. That was something at least. His recall of the previous night was somewhat sketchy, but the parts he could remember were rather embarrassing in the cold light of day. It didn't help that Greg looked exactly like he'd spent the evening being ravished and was now slumbering in post-coital bliss. "What are you even _doing_ here? You don't live here anymore, or has Mary thrown you out?" he grouched sourly from beneath his arm.

"I came to retrieve my bottle of wine that I mistakenly left in your shopping yesterday, but it appears that you and lover-boy have drunk half of it, and the rest is currently soaking into Mrs Hudson's carpet. I expect she'll forgive you when I tell her you have a new _boyfriend_." He grinned wickedly and tossed Sherlock's stained shirt in the direction of the laundry hamper.

"Don't you dare! I can't stand her being all… _happy_. It's nauseating." Speaking of which, his stomach gave an alarming gurgle that forced him to surge to his feet and bolt for the door, almost flattening John in his haste. Crouched over the toilet bowl he cursed Lestrade, whisky and ice cream, until there was nothing left in his stomach. Weakly he brushed his teeth, the fresh minty toothpaste making him gag more than once, then made his way back to the bedroom. John was clattering around in the kitchen, probably making tea… hopefully cleaning up whatever disaster they had left in the living room. Sherlock groaned and, deciding he felt too ill to give a damn what John thought, he crawled back into bed beside Greg.

"Has he gone?" Greg's voice was rough with sleep and the hangover he surely must have too.

"Kitchen," was all Sherlock could manage. Every word made his head throb painfully. Even his ears hurt! "I think I hate you."

Greg snorted a laugh and rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. "I think I should be thanking you for a great night, judging by how crap I feel." Seeing Sherlock's eyes widen in alarm he smiled. "It's fine. I've had weirder nights, and all things considered I really enjoyed this one." He reached out and pushed a stray curl off Sherlock's forehead. "Maybe it opened my eyes to a few things but… I guess we go back to the odd manly hug next time a case goes well, huh?"

"I guess so… I'm not going to make a habit of saving your life if it means I wake up next morning wishing I was dead. I mean cos of the hangover…" he said hastily.

"I know." He treated Sherlock to his full on grin, plumping up his pillows and leaning back against the headboard. He looked down in bemusement at his sticky chest. "How'd we make so much mess with ice cream? Never mind… I think it would disturb me too much to know." They could hear John slamming cupboard doors and clanking cups onto a tray, muttering curses as he went. "You up to giving John a real shock? Bit of payback?" Greg asked mischievously.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Just shuffle over here a bit. Yeah, just there. Now, promise not to throw up on me…? In one… two… three…" Just as John walked through the door bearing hangover cures and tea for the pair of them, Greg pulled Sherlock into his arms and kissed him full on the lips.


End file.
